by Caleb Carr
Heading into the reception room after we’d laid waste to one of Mrs. Hastings’s excellent pies, everyone except Cyrus and Lucius gathered around the card table. The younger Isaacson brother was too nervous to sit still for cards, while Cyrus preferred to pass the time playing Mr. Picton’s piano. The rest of us, though, threw ourselves into our small-stakes gambling with genuine enthusiasm. The contest grew pretty heated as the evening wore on, and it wasn’t until Mrs. Hastings came down from her room to tell us that we needed to get going if we wanted to be sure of meeting the midnight train that we realized how late it’d gotten. When we did, I think everybody’s heart did a kind of fluttering jig; at least, there was a lot of pointless running around what preceded our actually getting out the door, the kind of activity that generally marks people who’ve reached some long-dreamed-of but still, in a way, unexpected point.
Our walk down to the depot was quiet enough, but I marked that there were a lot of faces at a lot of dimly lit windows watching as we passed, a very unusual state of affairs in a town that, as I’ve said, generally bedded down early. It wasn’t hard to explain the unusual behavior: the feeling that the whole community was on the eve of something that might change the way they thought about a lot of things—not least themselves—was thicker than it had been at any point during the previous five days; thicker, even, than when Mr. Picton had announced the indictment; and when we first heard the distant whistle of the midnight train echoing up from many miles to the southeast, I was sure that we couldn’t have been the only people in town who felt our bodies shiver mightily.
There were only a few other people on the train platform when we got there: the guard Henry, who’d been told by Sheriff Dunning to meet the train, along with Mr. Grose of the Ballston Weekly Journal and a couple of his employees. As for the mayor of the town, he’d been on vacation since before we came to the place, and after hearing about the indictment, he’d decided to extend his holiday: like District Attorney Pearson, he figured there was no political gain to be had from this case, only damage, and maybe considerable damage. Mr. Grose didn’t say much to any of our party, and Mr. Picton didn’t offer him anything fresh for his newspaper. Not that Mr. Grose would’ve printed such; in feet, I think he was just there on the off-chance that Dunning would show up empty-handed, or that a calamity of some kind might take place at the depot. My bet was that if everything went smoothly, the evening’s activities wouldn’t get more than a few lines in the following Saturday’s edition of the weekly paper.
Midnight came and went, causing Mr. Picton to remark that he hoped the Spanish government and people were even worse at keeping to timetables than Americans were, if our country really intended to go to war with Madrid. Finally, at about 12:15, the train’s whistle sounded again, much closer this time. El Niño hopped down and did the old Indian trick of putting his ear to the tracks, then nodded eagerly as he rejoined us on the platform. The actual noise of the train’s engine reached our ears just as a light flashed through a break in the buildings beyond the depot; and in a few more seconds the steaming locomotive and its four nearly empty cars stormed in, causing us all to take a few steps back toward the station.
Sheriff Dunning was the first man off the forward car, and even in the near darkness his face looked plainly exhausted. One of his deputies followed, and then there was a long pause. Finally, she appeared.
The very shapely body was draped in a fine black silk dress, a stiff crinoline undergarment keeping the skirt in perfect order. The hands were cuffed together with old-style manacles. A small hat with a jet-black rooster feather sat forward on the head, holding a black veil in place; but the weave of the veil was an open one, and the golden eyes were plainly visible as they caught the light of the gas lantern on the platform and threw it back in our faces.
“Well,” Libby Hatch said, just the same way she had the first time we’d ever heard her speak: in a tone what was open to a half-dozen interpretations, and what made me think of Miss Howard’s words about Libby’s personality being broken into pieces. Then, seeing past us to Mr. Grose and the others, Libby put on a more melancholy air. “Mr. Picton,” she said, slowly coming down the steps of the car and getting a hand from Sheriff Dunning, “I never expected to see you again—certainly not under such circumstances as these.”
“Really?” Mr. Picton said quietly, not able to keep a small grin off his face. “How odd—since I always suspected we might meet again, and under precisely these circumstances.”
The golden eyes flashed on the rest of us with a quick glare of hate, and then softened as they came to rest on Mr. Grose. “Is that you, Mr. Grose?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hatch,” the man answered, a little surprised. “You remember me?”
“We only met once or twice,” Libby answered with a gentle little nod. “But of course I remember.” Golden tears began to well up under the veil. “How is my baby—my Clara? They tell me she can finally speak again. But I can’t believe that she’d—that she’d—” Her shoulders began to heave, and the sound of gentle sobbing escaped her tightly pursed mouth.
Mr. Grose, who looked very confused but very emotional, too, was about to answer, but the Doctor stepped between them quickly. “Mr. Picton,” he said, quietly but firmly, “may I suggest…”
“Of course,” Mr. Picton answered, getting the point right away. “Dunning, you and I will take Mrs. Hunter, as she is now known, to the court house. There’s a cell waiting. You brought a rig, Henry?”
The guard, who also seemed moved by what he’d seen, stepped forward. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Then we’ll be on our way, madam,” Mr. Picton finished, indicating the station yard. “If you wish to speak to the press, or they to you, requests can be submitted to my office.”
Sheriff Dunning got behind the woman. “Come along, ma’am,” he said. “Best to do what Mr. Picton says.”
Libby Hatch kept sobbing for a few more seconds; but when she saw that it wasn’t going to buy her anything, she turned on the Doctor, the sadness disappearing with frightening speed. “This is your doing, Doctor. Don’t think I don’t know that. But I don’t care what you’ve said to my daughter or made her believe—once she sees me, she’ll know what to do. I’m her mother.” Mr. Picton took a firm hold of Libby’s right arm, and indicated to Sheriff Dunning that he should do the same on her left: together, they got her moving. “Do you hear, me, Doctor?” she called over her shoulder. “I’m her mother! I know that doesn’t mean anything to you, but it will to her—and to anyone with a heart! Whatever else you may have done, you can’t change that!” Sobbing again, the woman passed out into the yard with her escort, the deputies and the court house guard following behind.
The rest of us wandered out to watch them all get aboard a big, plain wagon with three bench seats what was drawn by two horses. With its lone female occupant still in tears, the rig rolled away; and as it did, Mr. Grose turned to give the Doctor a silent scowl. Then he nodded to his people, and turned to silently march off toward the low end of Bath Street, where the offices of the Journal were located.
“Well, Kreizler,” Mr. Moore said, as we stood there in the silent yard. “I guess that’s really the question, isn’t it?”
The Doctor turned to him, his mind very far away. “The question?” he asked softly.
“She’s Clara’s mother,” Mr. Moore said, with a grim but curious look on his face. “Can you change that?”
The Doctor just shook his head, his eyes going wide. “No. But we may, perhaps, be able to change what that means.”
CHAPTER 42
The arraignment was set for ten o’clock the next morning, and by fifteen minutes to the hour we were all gathered in the main courtroom. Mr. Picton was seated at one long table on the right side of the big chamber, beyond a low, carved oak railing what separated the gallery from the officers of the court. At a similar job on the left-hand side of the room were Libby Hatch and a well-dressed, dark-haired man who wore gold-rimmed pince-nez perched on to
p of his long, thin nose. No fancy glasses or expensive suit, though, could keep a look of genuine uncertainty out of Irving W. Maxon’s eyes: he kept glancing around the room like a nervous bird, as if he wasn’t sure how he’d landed in his current predicament or just what he was supposed to do about it. Libby Hatch, on the other hand—still wearing her black silk dress, but not the hat or veil—was a picture of confidence, staring at the high fruitwood bench in front of her with a face what seemed forever on the verge of breaking into the coquettish smile it so often displayed.
As for Mr. Picton, he had his watch open on the table in front of him and was staring at it, more calm than he’d been at any time since we’d met him.
The Doctor, Mr. Moore, the detective sergeants, and Miss Howard were all sitting in the first row of gallery chairs behind Mr. Picton’s table and the wooden railing; Cyrus, El Niño, and I were right behind them. We’d gotten the aborigine scrubbed down pretty good for the event, and the combination of his cleanliness and my evening clothes made him one of the most presentable people in the galleries, which since nine o’clock had been crammed full of a ragtag collection of townspeople, along with some sharper-looking visitors who’d come down from Saratoga. Sheriff Dunning was sitting at a small table just to the right of Mr. Picton, and beyond him, against the right-hand wall, was the jury box, its twelve seats empty. There was a guard standing on the other side of the room, and in front of him was the court stenographer, a proper-looking lady who went by the peculiar name of Iphegeneia Blaylock. The bailiff’s desk in front of the bench was empty, and on either side of the bench itself were two iron lamp fixtures and a like number of flags, one the American, the other the state banner of New York. Back by the front door, keeping a careful eye on who came into and out of the place and how they behaved, were the guard Henry and a slightly shorter (but, to judge by the look of him, no less powerful) uniformed man.
It was a strange experience for me, to be observing all the details of the situation from someplace other than the defendant’s chair; but the strangeness soon gave way to a feeling of relief and even excitement, as I realized that this was the place where all our recent labors would reach some kind of a conclusion in the days to come. It was like standing under the wire at the track and waiting for the horses to get out of the starter’s gate: I found myself tapping and banging my feet and hands and wishing the thing would just start. To judge by the noises around me, I wasn’t alone in said feeling, either: the talking, mumbling, and skittish laughing in the courtroom rose as every second of waiting went by, until by three minutes to ten I found I almost had to yell to make myself heard by Mr. Moore.
“What?” he called back to me, touching his ear.
“I said, have you heard anything from Canfield’s about the odds?” I shouted back.
He nodded. “Fifty to one—and I’m sure it’d be higher if someone other than Rupert were arguing the state’s case!”
I whistled, glancing at the floor; then, as an idea hit me, I looked back up. “You don’t suppose we could get any bets down through a third party, do you?”
Mr. Moore smiled but shook his head. “I already thought of that, but I promised Rupert we wouldn’t! He’s superstitious—thinks it’ll put the Jonah on his chances!”
I smiled back and nodded: any gambling soul would’ve understood exactly how Mr. Picton felt.
Just then a door in the back wall of the big room opened and the bailiff walked in, looking like he was ready to take on any and every person in the room what might have thoughts about trying to turn his court into a circus. He was another big fellow, was Jack Coffey, with the kind of steely eyes what you might’ve expected to find in a frontier barroom instead of an eastern court house; but when I caught sight of Judge Brown, I began to understand why he’d retained the services of such a beefy bailiff. So small he almost disappeared behind the bench as he walked up the little flight of stairs to take his seat behind it, Charles H. Brown had big ears what stuck out like a monkey’s, a short but full dusting of pure white hair over his head, and plenty of wrinkles in his aged clean-shaven face. But his eyes matched the bailiff’s in their determination and their open warning that he would put up with absolutely no nonsense, while the firm set of his thin, wrinkled lips and square jaw told of just how much justice he’d dealt out, over his years.
I was even more glad, looking at him, that it wasn’t me sitting in Libby Hatch’s chair.
“All rise!” boomed Bailiff Coffey from deep in his barrel chest, bringing everyone to their feet and instant silence to the room; and as he went on to announce the exact number of that session of the court, he kept glancing up at the crowd, still looking for some wise mug what might think he wasn’t in the presence of the full power of the state of New York. Holding a clipboard up in front of him, Coffey next announced the first order of business for that day: “The people of Saratoga County versus Mrs. Elspeth Hunter of New York City, formerly Mrs. Elspeth Hatch of Ballston Spa, formerly Miss Elspeth Fraser of Stillwater—on the charge that she did, on or about the thirty-first day of May, eighteen hundred and ninety-four, willfully and with premeditation murder Thomas Hatch, three years old, and Matthew Hatch, four years old, and that at the same time she did willfully and with premeditation attempt to murder Clara Hatch, five years old, all in the township of Ballston Spa.”
The charge sent a ripple of mumbling through the room, one what Judge Brown brought to an end with a sudden, savage rap of his gavel. From his cushioned leather chair—which, high as it was, still only raised him clear of the bench from the chest up—Judge Brown scowled around the courtroom.
“The court,” he eventually said, in a tough, gravelly voice, “would like to make it clear from the start that it is aware of the amount of interest the public takes in this case. But the court has never allowed public interest to interfere with the pursuit of justice, and it is not about to start at this late date. I would therefore remind those of you in the galleries that you are the guests of this court, and warn you that if you behave as anything else you will feel the court’s boot in your collective backside.” There were a lot of smiles at that, but only one man at the back of the room actually threw out a laugh—and he soon regretted taking the liberty. Judge Brown’s eyes fixed on the fellow quicker than spit, as his wrinkled, thin hand brought the gavel up and pointed it. “Remove that individual,” the judge said, “and make certain he does not again attend these proceedings.”
The guard Henry grabbed the man by the collar and, before the stunned victim had a chance to protest, got him out through the big mahogany doors.
“Now, then,” the judge went on, looking around to be sure he’d made his point. “Is the accused present?”
“She is, Your Honor,” replied Irving W. Maxon, his voice a little shaky.
“You have heard the state’s charge,” the judge went on, looking to Libby Hatch. “How do you plead?”
“If it please the court,” Mr. Maxon answered, before Libby could say anything. “We beg a few moments’ indulgence, as we are awaiting—”
Judge Brown cut him off with a big, loud sigh, one what turned into a groan as he rubbed a hand over the short white hairs on his head. “We are all of us awaiting something, counselor. I myself have spent my life awaiting a trial that is free of unnecessary delays.” The old eyes bore in on Mr. Maxon. “I am still awaiting.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Mr. Maxon replied, his nervousness growing under the ancient stare what showered down from the bench. “If you’ll only allow me to explain—”
Just then the gentle clap of the mahogany doors closing was heard, and Mr. Maxon turned along with the rest of us to get a look at the newcomer who’d produced the sound:
Even from a distance, I could tell that it had to be Clarence Darrow, being as he so completely matched Marcus’s description of the man. Unlike lawyer Maxon, Mr. Darrow’s clothes were of an ordinary variety—just a plain, light brown suit and white shirt, with a simple tie knotted carelessly at the neck—and t
hey looked as if he’d slept in them on the train. Though not as thoroughly sloppy as it would one day become (Mr. Darrow had only begun to establish a disheveled appearance as one of his trademarks), this look was still very different from that of the other officers of the court, as was his way of walking: slow and stooped over, a kind of loping movement what was especially noticeable given his considerable size. His hair, as Marcus had told us, was uncombed, and a lock of it hung over his forehead. The face wasn’t as wrinkled, naturally, as it would become during his years of greater fame, but it was still weathered and rugged; and the eyes had the same light color and sad, searching expression that would also become so legendary in the future. The soft mouth was pursed in a way what matched a pair of big circles under the eyes: a way what seemed to speak about the high price of wisdom bought by too much exposure to man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. As he moved down the center aisle, Mr. Darrow took in the crowd with a steady, strong gaze what was different from Judge Brown’s, but produced just as much of an effect: by the time he’d reached the railing, every eye in the place was locked on him.
It was a performance, of course; but I’d been in a lot of courtrooms, and it was one of the best I’d ever seen—good enough to let me know right away that we were in more trouble than we’d figured on being.
Clutching an old, beaten-up briefcase, Mr. Darrow signaled to Mr. Maxon, who said, “If the court will excuse me for one moment,” and rushed over. Judge Brown didn’t look happy about that, but he sat back with another sigh and waited as Mr. Maxon opened the railing of the gate and let Mr. Darrow over into the business side of the room, where he quickly shook hands with Libby Hatch.
